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Nyota Uhura
19 May 2013 @ 07:06 pm
personal log stardate -309619.73696727544  
[ video ]
[Uhura sits behind her desk at the Youth Center and smiles at the camera. She doesn't normally work on Sundays, but she's been in the Youth Center this entire weekend, getting herself ready to officially start as Youth Center director on Monday.]

Hello everyone. My name is Nyota Uhura, and I'll be taking over for Penny as director of the Youth Center. Unfortunately, this means I will no longer be running any language or history classes at the Welcome Center, but you can still arrange for language tutoring by appointment.

You can find me at my office Monday through Friday at any time between 9 AM and 5:30 PM. [She actually works 8:30 to 6, but she wants to build in at least some time for herself to make sure things run smoothly.]

Please stop by at any time. I want to make sure that the Youth Center is filling the needs of our community.

Thank you for your time, and I look forward to meeting all of you.



[ooc: Open action at the Youth Center -- Stiles, Jem & any other Youth Center regulars, we can handwave Uhura meeting you, or play it out in here!]
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Todd Anderson
19 May 2013 @ 11:47 pm
║ eighty-ninth stanza ║ action  
[The recent events in the City - the unusual pattern of the curses, the odd snippets from the deities, the general feeling of elevated unease among the population - are certainly taking their toll on Todd. The City is his home, as far as he's concerned, and he's worried. There have been incidents before, times that he was terrified that it would all crumble away and he'd find himself tossed out of it. Best case, back in his world where Neil's dead, Nuwanda's expelled, and he's certain to face some as-yet-unknown form of discipline. Worst case? Who knows what else could lay beyond the barriers of the City.

So he deals as a poet deals; he writes. He sits on the steps outside the library, after he's done with his shift, and he takes out his notebook and he writes. He hunches over it, so passerby won't glimpse the words, but his hand moves furiously. Writing, re-writing, scratching. The catharsis of getting something out on the paper, of spilling his thoughts and then refining them, sculpting them from an expulsion of primal emotion into something more cohesive, is precisely what he needs at this moment.]
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